


So True a Fool

by Robottko



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Slavery, slavelock, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 13:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2230794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robottko/pseuds/Robottko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For over three hundred years, blond men and women had been the serving class of England. Their liberation only five years previous had been a controversial one, and many darker haired masters had refused to give up their lifelong slaves. This had led to small armies of blond men and women rushing in, destroying houses of corrupt masters, freeing their blond slaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So True a Fool

**Author's Note:**

> On this day, August 31st, in 1990, a child by the name of Robottko was born. It was decreed that every year on her birthday, she shall update every fanfiction that is a WIP. So, it is with great honor that I present to you this update.

_Being your slave, what should I do but tend_

_Upon the hours and times of your desire?_

_I have no precious time at all to spend,_

_Nor services to do, till you require._

_Nor dare I chide the world without end hour_

_Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,_

_Nor think the bitterness of absence sour_

_When you have bid your servant once adieu._

_Nor dare I question with my jealous thought_

_Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,_

_But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought_

_Save, where you are, how happy you make those._

_So true a fool is love that in your will,_

_Though you do anything, he thinks no ill._

_-Shakespeare, Sonnet 57_

 

 

For over three hundred years, blond men and women had been the serving class of England. Their liberation only five years previous had been a controversial one, and many darker haired masters had refused to give up their lifelong slaves. This had led to small armies of blond men and women rushing in, destroying houses of corrupt masters, freeing their blond slaves. 

Of course, Sherlock found the attacks nothing but amusing. He had refused to own a slave his entire life, sending away the most professional men and women away with but a glance. It had been a strain on his mother and father, both of whom were convinced that Sherlock could not live on his own. None of their begging and pleading would sway his mind. It proved beneficial in the end.

Of course, just because blonds had been given freedom didn’t make them completely free. Their new laws allowed for loopholes. If a blond committed a crime, they could be sold as a slave once more. Sherlock should have known something was wrong when he saw the smug look on Mycroft’s face.

“You look more pleased with yourself than usual.” Sherlock commented drily when he stumbled upon Mycroft sitting in his chair, forgoing the usual complaint of having Mycroft in his flat. “Something to do with the terrorists, I presume?”

“Naturally. We’ve captured one of their leaders.” Mycroft replied smoothly. “A doctor by the name of John Watson.”

“A doctor?” Sherlock frowned, “A brunet has been working for the blond rebellion?”

“John Watson is a blond.” Mycroft said. “He received formal doctoral training by obtaining illegal hair dyes and masquerading as a red-head.”

“A blond doctor?” Sherlock asked incredulously. “That’s unheard of.”

“Quite. He’s rather brilliant.” Mycroft said, and if Sherlock didn’t know any better, he would say his brother admired the blond. “Of course, we need to assign him a master. His punishment for the crimes he has committed will be a lifetime of slavery.”

“What if the master chooses to set him free?” Sherlock asked curiously.

“Do you really think that would happen?” Mycroft sneered. “If his master frees him, then we have no choice but to let him be a freeman, but no one would allow that man to have his freedom.”

“Now, what exactly does this have to do with me?” Sherlock diverted topics, his eyes narrowing at the elder Holmes.

“I need another pair of eyes, of course.” Mycroft said, twiddling the handle of his umbrella. “To make sure he is assigned the proper master.”

There was something that Mycroft was concealing, but Sherlock thought better than to bring it up at that moment, agreeing quietly to be present at the master ceremony.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock should have known that Mycroft was up to something, but he had completely ignored the signs until the paperwork was presented to him.

“What is this, Mycroft?” Sherlock growled waving the forms in front of Mycroft. “Are you trying to get me to take a slave??”

“Naturally.” Mycroft rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s dramatics. “You need a slave, and I believe you’re the only one smart enough to fall for the lies Watson will tell you.”

“I don’t  _want_  a slave.” Sherlock hissed, tossing the forms at Mycroft.

“Why don’t you meet him first?” Mycroft suggested gesturing in the direction of the prisoners. “Then you can decided.”

Sherlock huffed, but he followed Mycroft into the prison cells to meet the John Watson. It wasn’t hard to guess who he was. The other blonds looked beaten down, defeated. But one stood out.

He was glaring at Mycroft, dark blue eyes locked on the taller figure, clearly searching for ways to escape. The lack of clothing, save for a small swatch of leather over his most intimate parts, showed straining muscles, trying to pull the chains from the wall.

“John Watson, meet your new master.” Mycroft said in a cold voice, looking completely bored to anyone who didn’t know him. However, Sherlock could see the glint in his eyes that said otherwise. “My brother, Sherlock.”

“Slavery has been abolished.” Watson spoke after a moment, his voice rough with disuse as he quickly sized Sherlock up, deeming him unthreatening. “You can’t do this.”

"But I can." Mycroft sounded smug. "You see, the law states that if a blond is charged with a crime, their punishment can include slavery. You have caused a lot of damage, and severely injured many upper class families."

"They refused to release their slaves." John sounded angry. "We do not deserve to be treated like cattle merely because our hair is a different colour than yours."

"We would have freed them without the dramatics, Doctor Watson." Sherlock cut in. The blonde’s eyes widened fractionally at the use of his title, clearly surprised that a brunet would show such respect.

“The law is the law.” Mycroft agreed. “And you have broken it, Watson. You have been sentenced to a lifetime of slavery.”

“A lifetime?” Watson said, sound lost.

Mycroft merely smiled before turning to Sherlock. “Sign the papers, Sherlock. Don’t make me order you.”

“I have no use for a slave.” Sherlock hissed, ignoring Watson. “I don’t want one.”

“Find use for one.” Mycroft said, motioning towards the papers in Sherlock’s grasp. Sherlock rolled his eyes, scrawling his signature on the slavery ownership forms, shoving them into Mycroft’s arms as soon as he was done.

“Thank you, brother.” Mycroft smirked, handing him the key to John Watson’s chains. “This is for you. Be careful.”

He watched Mycroft leave, rolling his eyes before turning to Watson, eyeing him in curiosity.

“I meant what I said, I don’t want a slave.” Sherlock said, opening the prison door and taking hold of Watson’s chains “But I could use a colleague.”

“A colleague?” Watson repeated dumbly, looking shocked. Sherlock sighed slightly, tugging at the chains to encourage him to walk.

“Yes, a colleague.” Sherlock replied. “I’m a consulting detective, and I am in need of a doctor as an assistant.”

“Why on earth would you want me as an assistant?” Watson asked, suspicion clouding his features. “I’m just a blond.”

“Your hair colour holds no importance with me.” Sherlock waved off Watson’s inquiry. “I’ve already learned of your intelligence. Now, will you help me or not?”

“Don’t have much of a choice, do I?” John asked, rattling his chains.

“You always have a choice.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Now let’s go. The game is on!”

 

* * *

 

 

“Amazing” The word made Sherlock freeze in place, and he stared at John for a full seven seconds before it fully registered in his mind.

“You think so?” Sherlock asked timidly, waiting for John to claim that he had been joking.

“Of course it was. It was brilliant, absolutely brilliant.” John said, his face open and admiring.

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“Piss off.”

John laughed, causing a funny wriggling feeling to begin in Sherlock’s stomach. He would have to look up symptoms for different illnesses as soon as he arrived home, because clearly he was coming down with something.

“Mycroft never gave me the key to your shackles.” Sherlock said after a moment, hoping that his tone was portraying how apologetic he felt. “It seems he thought I would just set you free.”

“Would you?” John quirked an eyebrow.

“Naturally.” Sherlock responded, and John flashed him a disbelieving look. “I don’t want a slave, and your chains jingle when you walk. Completely distracting.”

John laughed again, and the wriggling got worse. It was best to ignore the strange symptom for now, as he could do nothing to treat it. He needed to find a killer first.

“So, have you figured out where the killer is?” John asked.

“Of course. It’s going to be a chase though. Probably gunfire.”

“Right.”

“Anyone in the area will be in danger of getting shot.”

“Of course.”

“Would you like to assist me?” Sherlock smirked.

“Oh god, yes.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Sherlock bloody Holmes!” John shouted as soon as Sherlock entered the flat. He had gotten his chains removed a week ago, and no matter how many times Sherlock had tried to dissuade him, he insisted on straightening up the flat.

“ _If I don’t, we’ll be buried alive, or die of an experiment gone wrong.”_ John had said.

“Yes, John?” Sherlock asked, following the angry sounds his flatmate was making, discovering him standing in front of the freezer, door flung open, and a baggie in his hand.

“Care to explain this?”

“They’re thumbs. I need them to-”

“I don’t care.” John said shortly. “You had them on the shelf specifically labelled for food.”

“I…you don’t mind that I have thumbs in the freezer?” Sherlock asked, surprised.

“Of course not. I just don’t want them contaminating my food.” John sighed, placing the thumbs on a lower shelf. Inexplicably, the wriggling in his stomach grew worse, and he pressed a hand against it, trying to make it stop.

“We are going to have to do something about that head, though…”

 

* * *

 

 

For being the world’s most observant man, it had taken him an extraordinarily long amount of time to deduce how he felt for John Watson. The praises that fell so easily from his lips left a permanent warmth in his chest, and he had mistaken it for platonic fondness. 

Sherlock, who had prided himself in the knowledge that he would never be bogged down with foolish sentiment, discovered that he had fallen in love, and it was far too late to get out.

It was eight months after John had been given to him, and Sherlock felt himself pondering a dreaded question. The thought of it felt acidic in his chest, burning its way through his sternum, letting the world see his fear.

"John." Sherlock blurted out, staring at the empty fireplace. John, who was sitting in his chair reading the paper, looked up in surprise.

"Hm?" He hummed, acknowledging Sherlock's aborted sentence.

"John..." Sherlock spoke again, eyes flicking towards him. "If you were granted your freedom...if you could go anywhere, where would you go?"

Sherlock watched John ponder the question, an unreadable expression on his face. 

"I suppose I would go home." John answered hesitantly, a bemused smile on his face that Sherlock didn't understand.  "I would live as a free man with those I love."

"Ah." Sherlock said, turning so John couldn't see his face. Not that Sherlock would show his heartbreak in an obvious manner, but John had proven adept at reading his stoic faces before. 

"You okay?" John asked, the concern clear in his tone. 

"Of course." Sherlock answered quickly. "Excuse me. I have an important case that I might have a break on."

"A case?" John sounded intrigued. "You didn't tell me there was a case on. Anything I can do to help?" 

"Your help isn't required." Sherlock replied, standing up and walking towards the door. If he had turned to look at John before leaving, he might have seen hurt cross his face. 

 

* * *

 

 

"Are you sure about this, brother mine?" Mycroft asked, twirling John's documents between his fingers. "Having a slave has proven beneficial to you. Are you willing to lose that?"

"He's hardly a slave." Sherlock snapped without thought. "And it's what he wants. He desires to leave, to see his family."

"You've fallen in love with him." Mycroft sounded surprised. "Sentiment is a weakness-"

"And I'm getting rid of it." Sherlock interrupted. "Are you happy?" 

"Don't be so dramatic." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I was going to say that sentiment is a weakness, but it can also be a strength."

"Hmph." Sherlock huffed. "Do be a dear and give that to John. He won't feel as guilty if it’s you handing him his freedom. Perhaps he'll leave faster."

Sherlock turned away from Mycroft, encouraging him to leave. Sure enough, he heard Mycroft's soft footsteps walking away, followed by a hushed click of the door. Sherlock was alone.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock waited all day, and a great deal of the night before deciding to return back to Baker Street. He had briefly considered not returning home at all, but he quickly reasoned that it would not be easier to return to an empty flat in the daylight versus at night. 

So, it was with a heavy heart that he found himself standing in front of the flat he had once shared with John. The windows were dark, and Sherlock could practically see the emptiness inside them. John would have left hours ago, and he was most likely home safe with his family once more.

Sherlock unlocked the door, trudging up the seventeen steps to the flat above. He flicked on a light as he entered the door to the kitchen, flipping on the tea kettle immediately. 

"Milk, no sugar for me." A familiar voice called from the lounge, causing Sherlock to jump. 

"John." Sherlock said, wincing when he voice came out higher than normal. He half ran over to John's red armchair, freezing when he saw him sitting there, newspaper spread across his lap. "What are you doing here?"

"Shouldn't I be?" John frowned, looking up at him. 

"Didn't Mycroft give you your freedom?" Sherlock asked, sounding unsure.

"Oh!" John brightened, grinning easily at Sherlock. "Yeah he did. Ta for that, by the way. I didn't realise that you cared so much."

"Then why aren't you gone?" Sherlock demanded. "I asked you what you would do if you were granted your freedom, and you said you would go home."

John laughed softly, folding up the long forgotten newspaper. "Sherlock, I  _am_  home. 221B is my home...I thought you knew that."

"But..." Sherlock tried to speak around the ballooning warmth in his chest. "You said you wanted to be with those you love?"

"Yeah, this wasn't exactly how I had hoped to tell you." John said, his face flushing a magnificent red. 

"John..." Sherlock stepped closer to him, not even giving the kettle a passing glance as it began to whistle shrilly.

"Shouldn't you...er..." John waved a hand at the kettle, trying to divert Sherlock's attention. 

"Unimportant." Sherlock said, "I'm too focused on exactly  _what_  you had wanted to tell me."

"I love you." John said after a moment, looking away from Sherlock. "I know you're not fond of this sort of thing, but you have to know-"

Sherlock cut him off with his lips, pressing them desperately against John's. The kiss lasted only a moment, but it felt like nearly a lifetime before he pulled away.

“I love you, John Watson.” Sherlock said hurriedly. “I want nothing more to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’ll have me.”

“Oh _god_ , yes.” John said, grabbing the front of Sherlock’s shirt and pulling him into another kiss. The kettle continued to whistle, only stopping when it ran out of water. Sherlock and John barely noticed, paying attention to nothing but the two of them as the kissed the night away.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this work was taken from William Shakespeare's 57th sonnet.


End file.
